The Attic Island of Treasures

When I was a little boy, the old attic felt like a mysterious treasure island, and I was like old Captain Flint exploring it. In the old rotten hay, I discovered objects that fueled my imagination and fascinated me so much that I could spend entire hours there.

But when I found an old military trunk, that was the true treasure of the island in the air. After opening it, I discovered crumbling newspapers and, with the care of an archaeologist, I began turning their pages. The papers felt like ancient parchment to me, and caution was my highest priority. I looked at the old photographs and wondered whether those people could still be alive, or whether they were already gone. I guessed their age by whether they looked old, young, or were still children.

The hay on my island had become so rotten and dusty that whenever I climbed down from the attic — because people downstairs were already looking for me — I came down covered in dust like a real explorer returning from a long expedition. Then I got smacked and heard the familiar words:

“What are you even doing up there in the attic? Go wash yourself!”

Of course, a good explorer never reveals the location of his treasure. In silence, with childish happiness and shining eyes, I accepted my punishment and went to wash the dust of old times off myself.

Perhaps today many childhood adventures fit inside a small glowing box held in the hand.